Missing Scenes Anthology
by Tikatu
Summary: My entries in the Tracy Island Writer's Forum Missing Scenes Contest. Includes the winning entry. TV-verse.
1. Operation Crash Dive: Fixing the Fuse

Missing scene from: "Operation: Crash Dive". Winner of the Tracy Island Writer's Forum Missing Scene contest. 

Set between Fireflash leveling out and Gordon's run-in with the fuse box. I have always wondered how Gordon got away unscathed from the burning wires and the electrical charge. My take on it is: he didn't.

_Rated:_ PG for mild swearing

* * *

The Fireflash evened out, then rose in the air once again, just seconds from destruction on the deceptively calm sea below. Scott let out a held breath; Gordon had done it! He didn't care how, but he was infinitely grateful to his ingenious little brother.

The plane rose to a good cruising height, not one that it would usually use on its flight between London and San Francisco, but one that would be easy for the air traffic controllers between their position and the London Airport to clear of all other aircraft. Scott had Alan relay a request for such a clearance and London Airport relayed back that they would comply.

"How're we doing, Virgil?" Scott asked his brother, shadowing them in Thunderbird Two.

"I don't know how he did it, but Gordon's got Fireflash right on course. Steady as a rock." Virgil's admiring comment came back.

"God, I'm glad he's the one who went up into the wing. He's got nerves of steel." Scott replied. "Do you realize that if we went down, he probably would have fried as the water entered the wing compartment? That is, if he didn't drown first. He wasn't set up in his frogman gear."

"I'm sure that added some impetus for him to find a solution, Scott," Virgil said. Scott nodded, unseen by his brother. He looked over at his co- pilot.

"What's our ETA to London airport, Hansen?" he asked.

Captain Hansen replied, "ETA, ten minutes. Hope your man is doing okay back there. I've tried to close the door to the wing interior, but it seems to be jammed."

"Yeah. I'd better check on him," Scott said. He turned his headset back to the IR frequency. "Hey, Gordon. How're you doing back there?"

There was no reply at first, but Scott became aware of a heavy, distressed breathing in his ear. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he realized something was wrong, very wrong.

"Gordon? Gordon! Report! What is your status?" Scott's speech went suddenly from jocular and familiar to terse and formal, hoping to shock a response from his little brother in the wing.

In the wing's interior, Gordon fought to hold on to consciousness as the electricity from the EPU conduit coursed through his form, as the creeping heat from the burning wires began to blister and sear the bare hands holding the conduit together. He was glad that he wasn't grounded, but still, it hurt! It took a good deal of energy to reply to his brother's command.

The heavy breathing continued in Scott's headphones, but a pain-filled response was squeezed out, "N-Not good, S-Scott. Don't kn-know how m-much longer I can.... h-hold out. P-Please hurry."

_Damn!_ Scott thought as he pushed open the throttle a bit more. _What is he doing back there?_

Captain Hansen looked at Scott, puzzled. "What's going on? Why the increase in speed?"

"My man back there is in bad shape. I've got to get us to London Airport as quickly as possible," Scott explained. "I don't know what he's done to keep us airborne, but it's costing him."

Virgil's voice broke in. "Scott, you're slowly losing altitude. It's not a constant loss; you'll lose a bit, and then come back up again. What's going on?"

"Gordon's in trouble, that's what!" Scott nearly snarled back at Virgil. "Whatever he's doing, it seems to be wearing him out." He turned again to Hansen. "ETA?"

"Four minutes to London Airport. I'll get us prepped for landing." Hansen replied, his face set in a determined mask. _I'll do whatever I can to help that poor guy in the wing._

"Alan? What news from London air control?" Scott asked.

Alan replied from his perch in Thunderbird Five, "They're ready for you. Make your approach on twenty-nine left."

"FAB," Scott responded. He motioned to Hansen. "It's all yours, Captain."

"Acknowledged. Tell your man to be ready on the EPU, to let go so I can lower the flaps. On my command." Hansen's concentration increased as the airport became visible.

"FAB. Gordon? Do you read me?" Scott asked, his anxiety rising into his throat like bile. "Be ready to let loose the EPU on my command." There was no immediate answer. "Gordon! Acknowledge!"

"FAB," came a faint response. Gordon was losing his battle with the conduit; he had grayed out several times, allowing the burning conduit to separate just a bit. Long enough and far enough to cause the loss in altitude that Virgil had reported.

Each time, however, Gordon had rallied and come around. The pain from his burns helped him focus, and the fact that his ordeal was nearly over made him determined to see the job through to the very end.

Captain Hansen made his final approach to the indicated runway. He didn't see the trickle of smoke that streamed out from the underside of his right wing. He couldn't hear the air traffic controllers giving him instructions; those came from Scott beside him, relayed by Alan in orbit above the Earth. He narrowed his focus, watched his altimeter, and prepared the landing gear.

"Cut EPU power... NOW!" Hansen shouted.

"Gordon, cut EPU now!" Scott relayed.

Gordon gave a final shudder and released the ends of the severed cable, pushing them away. Then he crumpled to the floor and let the darkness take him.

Fireflash made a less than perfect landing at London Airport. Less than perfect, but still one that kept the aircraft and its crew in one piece. Fire equipment raced across the tarmac to converge on the huge plane. Almost forgotten in the hullabaloo, Thunderbird Two landed next to the damaged craft.

"Gordon! You still with me?" Scott radioed. Nothing but silence greeted him this time and his blood ran cold as the worst case scenario presented itself to his mind's eye; his copper-haired brother lying, dead or dying, on the floor of the wing. Or worse yet, nowhere to be found, having fallen from the wing through the open hatch to his death along their approach. He shivered and began to hurriedly extricate himself from the safety straps.

"Scott! How are we going to get Gordon out of there?" Virgil demanded to know as he shut down the systems on his 'Bird, pulling on his heat resistant suit, preparing to help his younger brother.

"Virge, you be ready to move in and pull him out. I'll get you some help." Scott replied, pushing his fears back. He realized that Virgil would be able to get to Gordon faster than he could. "Alan, have London Control's fire equipment back off a bit. All but one ladder truck. Virgil, you meet up with that ladder truck and use it to climb in and help Gordon out of the wing. I'll join you as soon as I can get there. And hurry; I'm getting no response to my calls."

"FAB!" Virgil shouted as he made his way out of the cockpit, and over to the lift that would take him to the pod. He grabbed an oxygen mask for himself, fitting it to his face, remembering that Gordon had a similar mask with him that he could use. Then Virgil raised the body of his beloved machine out of the way, and, opening the pod's small access door, sprinted across the runway towards the smoking Fireflash wing. The fire trucks were backing up, pulling away from the wing, making room for the one ladder truck. As he ran, he watched the ladder rise into the air and extend into the compartment's opening. _Too slow!_ Virgil thought, though it really wasn't, because by the time he had reached the truck, the ladder was in place.

With a cursory nod to the fire chief, he climbed, followed by two firemen wearing similar fire-resistant gear and carrying a stretcher basket. The smoke filling the interior was light, mainly coming from the still burning wiring, which called to Virgil like a beacon. He made his way over to it, not caring what he kicked, not caring where he stumbled and tripped, his focus on only one thing: finding Gordon.

The blue clad figure was sprawled across the tiny bit of flooring behind the EPU conduit. Virgil's heart was in his throat as he reached out to find a pulse, and it settled back down into his chest when it was evident that Gordon's heart still beat and that his chest still rose and fell, even shuddering with a cough now and again. Virgil moved the oxygen mask back over his brother's nose and mouth, making sure that it was functioning properly, and then he made room for the stretcher.

"Scott, Alan, I have him. He's unconscious, he's got a pulse, thin but steady, and he's breathing shallowly. I figure he's gotten a lung full of smoke back here." It was then that Virgil got a look at Gordon's hands. He drew in a hissing breath.

"What's wrong, Virge?" asked Alan, his relieved voice sounding almost cheerful.

"Alan? It's his hands. Have base get onto a burn specialist here in London. I don't think that our medic will be able to treat the burns he's sustained." Virgil reported.

Alan's usually fair face went pale, but no one saw it. "FAB, Virgil. I'll get... base to make arrangements."

-----------------------------------

Back at the island that International Rescue called home and base, Jeff got regular updates from Alan in Thunderbird Five on the progress of the rescue. He was angered that the damage to the Fireflash was due to a saboteur and thrilled that this fourth son had found a way to reverse some of the sabotage and help the Fireflash limp home. He was proud of the way Scott and Captain Hansen brought the huge plane in for a safe landing. But now he was waiting for news about Gordon, news on his well-being. _How long will this take? How long until Virgil pulls him out? _he asked himself as he paced the floor.

"Base from Thunderbird Five," Alan's face was paler than normal and Jeff picked up on it right away. He stopped his pacing and made his way over to the desk. John, his other astronaut son, joined him there. They both stared at Alan's picture.

"Thunderbird Five from base. Go ahead, Alan." Nowhere in the Tracy patriarch's voice could indecision or wavering be heard. He was counting on his sons to bring this whole matter to a successful conclusion and to come home in one piece.

"I have an update on Gordon." Alan began. He took a deep breath, and Jeff's chest constricted. It could not be good news.

"He's unconscious, his pulse is steady though weak, and he's gotten a lung full of smoke. But, Dad.... his hands.... they're badly burned. Virgil doesn't think Brains can treat them properly and is asking you to set up a burn specialist here in London."

Jeff sat down heavily and closed his eyes. His thoughts whirled around in his head. _Burned? His hands, burned? How bad was it? What would this mean for him? Would he be crippled?_ Jeff forced his spinning mind to a standstill. He opened his eyes.

"I'll get on it right away, son. Charing Cross Hospital will do, I think. I'll have a floor cleared and get Penny to contact the best burn specialist in the city. John?" He turned to his third son, who had gone as pale as his youngest brother. "John. Contact Penelope right away. I'll speak with her as soon as I'm finished with Alan."

John nodded, and flicked a switch to open communications with their beautiful London agent, Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward. He went over to stand in front of her portrait and greeted her as her own, live face replaced the picture that didn't do her justice.

"Alan. Tell Virgil to ride with Gordon to the hospital. The security at the airport is tight and we might as well keep the Thunderbirds there for now. Scott is to pull the radio equipment from Fireflash and stay with the Thunderbirds until I give him other instructions. I'm on the hospital right now. Update me on the situation if anything new occurs, Alan."

"FAB, Father." Alan's color had improved, buoyed by the decisive nature of his father's orders. "Thunderbird Five, out."

Jeff moved over to Penelope's picture. The aristocrat looked Jeff with affection and compassion

"John has given me all of the particulars, Jeff. I will find Dr. Terrence Abernathy. He is the premier burns specialist in London and he has practicing privileges at Charing Cross. I have already informed the hospital of the nature of this emergency and they vow to do everything they can to keep Gordon's hospitalization very hush-hush." Penelope explained.

"Thank you, Penny. Excellent work. I knew I could count on you." Jeff gave her a small smile. "I'll follow up with the hospital, and then John and I will be flying out your way." John looked over at his father, a pleased look on his face. "Scott and Virgil will join us once they get the Thunderbirds back home."

"I will have the guest rooms waiting for you." Penelope promised. "I pray that Gordon's hands will be repairable."

"Me, too, Penny. Me, too," wished Jeff softly. "International Rescue base, out." Jeff turned to John. "Prep Tracy One, son. I'll collect your grandmother. We're going to England."

--------------------------

Virgil sat on the edge of his seat in the ambulance, just watching as the paramedics worked on his younger brother. Since the hands were the part affected, an IV had to be put elsewhere and the emergency medics opted for Gordon's elbow, cutting away the flight suit to expose the arm. They slathered each hand with a burn gel to ease the pain and keep the skin moist. They had replaced Gordon's flight mask with a medical oxygen mask, and were pumping his brother's lungs full of life-giving air.

"His pulse has stabilized, it's now strong and steady," one medic said to Virgil. "His breathing isn't what I'd like to see quite yet, but that is most likely due to the smoke inhalation. The doctors may want to put him in a hyperbaric chamber to treat it."

Virgil nodded. He knew that Gordon and hyperbaric chambers were old friends, at least until Brains had developed that anti-bends pill for Gordon's use.

A low moan sounding from behind the oxygen mask captured everyone's attention. Gordon's eyelids slid up a fraction, exposing his light, amber- brown eyes. He looked around wildly for a moment at his unfamiliar surroundings until he found the familiar; Virgil's worried face. His tensed body relaxed.

"D-Did we make it?" he asked, his voice harsh and nearly as soft as a whisper.

"You're here, aren't you?" Virgil responded with a jocular tone, smiling. "Of course you made it. What were you doing back there, anyway?"

"Held the EPU wires together manually," Gordon replied, his voice steadier.

"Whew! No wonder you've got such burns!" Virgil exclaimed.

Gordon raised his hands to where he could see them and frowned. _Oh no, open mouth, insert foot!_ Virgil realised in a hurry.

"Don't worry, Gords. Base has the best burn specialist in the city waiting for us at the hospital. Your hands will be back to normal in no time," Virgil assured him. Gordon gave him a long, piercing look. Virgil gazed back, hope and resolution in his face. Finally, Gordon nodded and closed his eyes again.

"Hey, Gordon! What was it like, getting that EPU working again?" Virgil asked, his curiosity piqued. Gordon, eyes still closed, smiled a small smile.

"Just like fixing a fuse, Virge. Just like fixing a fuse."

_finis_


	2. Terror In NYC: Rescue of a brother

Missing Scene from "Terror In New York" 

Set between Jeff going down to Fire/Landing Control and Virgil waking up in the sickroom.

Ever wonder how did they got Virgil out of the burning Thunderbird Two? Here's Gordon's perspective on it.

* * *

It was frightening, really frightening.

My brother's Thunderbird, the great green hulk called Thunderbird Two, was on fire and headed for base. I knew that Scott was trying to talk him in, but it seemed that Virgil was fighting a losing battle with his craft.

Father ordered us to Fire Control, situated under the Cliff House and over Thunderbird Two's hangar door. The palms were pulled back all the way and the fire extinguishing units, filled with Brains' concoction, dicetyline, rose like tall lamp posts on either side of the air strip. We were tense, Alan and I, but Dad was even more tense. He tried hard not to show it, but the fear of losing Virgil was very evident in his stance.

The massive cargo carrier that Virgil loved so much came screaming in towards us. She slowed, hit the runway, bounced back up, looking for all the world like a whale swimming in the deep. Finally, she skewed around and came to a stop just short of the cliff wall. The fire extinguishers did their work on the outside, and by the time Thunderbird Two stopped, she was covered in the white foam. Dad quickly sent Tin-Tin up to prepare the sick room. All three of us men, Dad, Alan, and me, figuring that if the outside was on fire the inside must be too, put on fire resistant suits with respirators, then grabbed extinguishers and sprinted as one to the smoking hulk of Thunderbird Two.

Trying to get into Thunderbird Two was difficult. There just wasn't any easy outside entrance unless you were able to get inside the pod. And the way things looked right then, there was no way we were going to be able to lift the cockpit and engines from the cargo bay. Not from the outside anyway. What we ended up doing was bringing out a mobile scaffold unit. This got us up to the bay doors on the underside of the cockpit, the hatch through which the rescue capsule, the cable launcher, and the electromagnetic grabs emerge when in use. Dad struggled with the remote control, cursing under his breath, pressing the remote's buttons time and time again to try and open those damned doors. But with power down inside Thunderbird Two, the remote was a wash. In the end, I was sent back into the hangar to fetch a power pry bar, like an old "Jaws of Life", and Alan and I used it to forcibly separate the hatch doors, making room for us to enter.

Immediately, we needed those fire extinguishers. The lower cockpit level had several wiring fires going, and the smoke from them was acrid. I was glad I had my suit and respirator.

"Gordon, Alan. You two work on getting these fires put out. I'm going up to find Virgil."

I looked over at Alan as we worked. Al's face was pale under the hood, his expression grim. Nothing like this had ever happened to us before. The only thing remotely like it was when Scott got shot down over the desert. That was nerve-wracking because he was thousands of miles away and we had no idea what had happened or how he was doing. This was far more immediate. The burning hulk was on our front doorstep, and our brother was probably lying in the cockpit, unconscious, breathing in smoke if he were breathing at all. Neither of us knew what Dad would find when he got up there. Except we knew he would find Virgil.

I never did learn exactly what Dad found, what condition my brother was in when our father made contact. I just know that I sighed with relief when Dad's voice in my helmet communicator told me that Virgil was alive and that we should bring up a stretcher to carry him out. Alan, level-headed for once, climbed the access ladder and hurried to the medical store room, saying he would pull a stretcher, backboard, and oxygen equipment from there and bring it on to Dad. I stayed below to finish extinguishing the fires. I noticed from the corner of my eye that the scaffolding went down, and when it came up again, Brains and Scott were on it, suited up as I was with a gurney between them. Brains went on to the rear to join Dad and Alan up top, while Scott picked up Alan's extinguisher to give me some help.

"Any word?" Scott asked tersely.

"Yeah. He's alive." I replied. I could see Scott visibly relax at the news. I could only imagine how hard it was for him to follow Virgil along, coaxing him to remain conscious and guiding him in to land back here at home. I had listened to the talkback and that was tense, but being there was probably worse.

"You did great, Scott. You talked him in. You got him home," I ventured, trying to encourage my brother.

Scott looked over at me, a tight smile behind his face plate.

"Thanks, Gordon." was all he said.

Dad, Brains, and Alan came down with Virgil strapped tightly to a backboard and in a stretcher. He was unconscious, and soot-covered, with little holes burned into his uniform where cinders had landed. He had a cervical collar around his neck, an oxygen mask on his face, and a bandage around his head. They carried him to the scaffolding and prepared to take him out of his Thunderbird.

Dad gave Scott a squeeze on the shoulder as he passed by.

"You were great out there today, son. I'm very proud of the way you got your brother home."

"Thanks, Dad," Scott replied. He looked over at Virgil on the stretcher. "Is he going to be okay?"

"Y-Yes, Scott. It will take, uh, some time. B-But Virgil should make a full, uh, recovery," Brains piped up. Scott nodded.

Dad took Alan's end of the gurney. "There are still fires in the cockpit area to be put out, boys. You three work on them while Brains and I get Virgil up to the sick room. Let me know when you're done here." Dad scanned the compartment we were in, looking in particular at the ruined bay doors. "Thunderbird Two will be down for quite some time. We'll need to work hard and fast to get her back up and running." He looked at each of us in turn, nodded, and then disappeared as the scaffold lift took him, Brains, and our injured brother down to the air strip level.

"You heard the man," Scott said. "I think we're done down here. Let's head topside and get the fires put out up there." I blew out a breath, and picked up my extinguisher. There was still a lot to be done, but the hardest part, the rescue of our brother, was a mission completed.

_finis_


	3. Move And You're Dead: Cooling Off

Missing Scene from: "Move, And You're Dead" 

Set between Virgil getting off the bridge and radioing back to base.

Alan had passed out from the heat, and he and Grandma really needed some time to cool off in order to look so fresh when Virgil reported in.

* * *

Virgil had just moved the Jet Air Transporter off of the San Miguel bridge when it went up in a violent explosion. Pieces of the bridge rained down around him, but he focused on his goal: getting his equipment, and more importantly, his charges, back to Thunderbird Two. He kept his eyes on the pod's entrance and pushed the throttle open as far as it would go.

Brains waited in the doorway to the pod, his part in the drama still ongoing as he switched from his role as engineer to his lesser-used role as medic. He was concerned about Alan's physical state. The younger man was draped over one of the Transporter's hand holds, looking as if he had finally succumbed to the heat of the San Miguel sun. He couldn't see Mrs. Tracy at all, though he had seen her actually jump, not fall, into the strong jets of air that were the Transporter's only output. He deduced that she was sitting on the air jet generators behind Virgil.

This proved to be the case as Virgil drove the Transporter into the cool darkness of the pod. He brought the vehicle to a stop on the spot where it would be locked down for the flight home and Brains hurried over.

"L-Let me assist you, Mrs. Tracy," he offered, reaching up to help Grandma down from the generators. Virgil was already pulling an unconscious Alan into a fireman's carry for transport up to the infirmary area of Thunderbird Two.

"Why, thank you, young man. You must be the one they call Brains," Grandma Tracy said, her voice weak but cordial as she slid off the back of the machine and into Brains's grasp.

"Y-Yes, Mrs. Tracy. I'm p-pleased to make your, uh, acquaintance," Brains said politely, as he slipped a supporting arm around the old lady. "Let me, uh, guide you to the infirmary where you can c-cool off."

"Normally, I wouldn't need the help, but, land's sakes! It was _hot _up there! I feel positively wilted," she exclaimed, leaning on Brains for support as they made their way over to the lift. Virgil had used the remote controls to close the door to the pod, and to lower the body of Thunderbird Two back over the cargo area. He carried Alan to the lift, and preceded Brains and his grandmother up to the command level. Brains recalled the tiny elevator and he and Mrs. Tracy followed Virgil up.

Virgil laid his brother down on one of the infirmary beds and began to loosen Alan's clothing, removing the striped jacket and the white pullover. He grabbed an ear thermometer and took his brother's temperature.

"Brains, he's too hot! He's suffering from sun stroke!" Virgil cried, his handsome face showing nothing but deep concern for his brother's condition.

"W-We'll soon fix that," Brains assured him as he helped Grandma Tracy to sit on another bed. "You let me deal with, uh, Alan. I th-think your grandmother n-needs your, uh, attention."

Virgil's face cleared a bit as he went to his grandmother. He crouched before her and took both of her hands in his. "How are you feeling, Grandma? What can I do for you?"

"I'm feeling _much _better here inside this cool place, Virgil. But you might help me off with my coat, and take my hat for me. And I could really use a drink of cool water."

Virgil smiled and complied with his grandmother's wishes, taking her coat and hat and hanging the coat up where the special-use suits were kept. Then he got her one drink of water, then another as she asked for it.

Meanwhile, Brains was busy sponging Alan down with cool water, hoping that between the air conditioning and the sponge bath, his internal temperature would come down. It took some time, but finally, Alan stirred.

"Wh-Where am I?" he asked, whispering, momentarily confused. His eyes focused on the engineer. "Brains." He looked around and recognized his surroundings. "I'm in Thunderbird Two. In the sickbay." He relaxed and sighed, throwing an arm up onto his forehead. "It's so good to get out of that sun!"

"I-I'm sure it is, Alan. Your body has c-cooled off at last. You might w- want to, uh, put your shirt back on," Brains suggested. Alan sat up gingerly, scrubbed his face with both hands, and took the shirt that Brains held out to him.

"Thanks, Brains. How's Grandma?" he asked, his voice stronger and full of concern.

"I'm over here and feeling much better, Alan," Grandma's voice came from elsewhere in the room. "In fact, I do believe that Virgil turned up the air conditioning a bit. I'm getting chilled. Brains, would you be so kind as to fetch my coat? And my hat? I'm sure Jeff will want to hear from us and I want to be properly dressed."

Brains smiled and retrieved the old woman's coat and hat. She left her bag on the bed, and Brains escorted her out to Thunderbird Two's cockpit, Alan tagging along behind.

"Oh my! This is just _so _impressive!" Grandma exclaimed as she looked around. "It's so big! And it looks so... complicated!" She looked over at the grandson who sat in the pilot's chair. "Do you really fly this all by yourself, Virgil?"

"Well, he pretends to, Grandma," quipped Alan. "But Brains made things easy for him. So easy that even Gordon can fly this bird! Not at all like my Thunderbird."

"Ha, ha, very funny, Alan. I'll remember that crack," Virgil said with a scowl. Then his face softened. "I was just about to call in to base and let them know you are okay. Come over here, Grandma, and stand by me. I'm sure Dad will want to see you for himself."

Grandma moved over to his left, and Alan stood at Virgil's right, while Brains stood behind Alan. Virgil toggled his radio switch and picked up his microphone.

"Base from Thunderbird Two. Leaving danger zone. Mission successfully completed."

_finis_


	4. Ricochet: In the Line of Duty

Missing Scene from "Ricochet" 

Set between Alan cutting down the airlock door and Virgil's reappearance.

What really happened between Alan and Rick O'Shea? And how did they ever get their rescuees to Earth? Alan tells the story.

* * *

The sparks were flying from my oxyhydnite cutter and I knew I was nearly through the inner airlock door. I kept wondering how I was going to get this guy, suddenly turned chicken, out of the satellite and back to Thunderbird Three.

The door fell, and there was O'Shea with a look of terror on his face, shouting for me to stay away from him. Shouting that he got vertigo just climbing stairs. You'd have thought I was some kind of alien being the way he was looking at me. I tried to be soothing, I really tried, but he backed up farther and farther away from me, finally stopping at a tape recorder, his hands fumbling and accidently starting the thing up. Then in his panic, he took a swing at me.

He. Took. A. Swing. At. Me.

_Okay. That's it. I've had enough of this creep._

My gauntleted right fist connected with his face, and he went down for the count.

I grinned. The great and wonderful Rick O'Shea, the great and wonderful _chicken_ Rick O'Shea, was now ready for transport to Thunderbird Three.

Scott's voice came over my helmet communicator, his tone tense as he reminded me just how little time I had before re-entry. I responded, telling him that O'Shea was ready even as I jammed the space suit helmet down over the disk jockey's head. Then I picked the man up in a fireman's carry, and activated the outer airlock door. Explosive decompression swept papers and loose debris out into space, but I managed to keep my feet. Once the way was clear and zero gravity had taken over, I floated over to the airlock and out of the satellite, then spacewalked back with O'Shea to my red rocket ship.

I put the man down next to his engineer, Loman, and then stripped off my space suit and headed up to the command level.

"Mission accomplished, Scott. Let's just hope that Virgil is ready to destroy that satellite."

"Yeah. I wish John and Gordon would move a little faster on the repairs to Thunderbird Five. I'm sure Virgil would feel better knowing for sure that we got O'Shea and Loman out." Scott frowned. "Hey, how are we going to get those two to a hospital on the mainland?" he asked.

I shook my head. "That's up to Dad. It's not like we can land this baby anywhere but on the Island."

"Well, since we're out of contact with base, I'm going to make a command decision. We'll take these two to Kennedy Space Center. Thunderbird Three can land and blast off from there for the return trip home." Scott said, a satisfied look on his face. I nodded, then sat down behind the controls and began to enter the coordinates for Kennedy while Scott moved to the communications panel and radioed the Space Center.

_Wonder what O'Shea's going to say when he wakes up with the shiner from my punch?_ I mused, chuckling to myself. _Hopefully he'll realize that it was all in the line of duty._

_finis_


	5. The Impostors: Butterfly Effect

_Author's note:_ Not exactly a "missing scene" _per se_, but something I was inspired to write after re-watching "Operation: Crash Dive" and thinking about "The Impostors". The whole "giving out proper names" has always irked me, especially in this situation where both Scott's first _and_ last name were made perfectly clear to Captain Hansen.

Thanks to Lillehafrue for beta and feedback.

_Disclaimer:_ I don't own them; ITV/Granada does. Gerry and Sylvia Anderson created them. I'm just writing about them.

* * *

Hansen dropped his tablet in disgust before scrubbing his face with both hands. It skittered across the coffee table, coming to rest at the edge. One simple email, addressed to General Lambert, burned on the screen and in his head.

"Start with Scott Tracy."

Tracy.

Scott, Alan, Gordon, Virgil – after his last run with the _Fireflash_ he had their names. Hell, Scott had pretty much given them to him during the flight! He figured they needed an astronaut for that rocket of theirs and they had one ready-made in brother John. It made sense that Scott's dad, billionaire industrialist-philanthropist Jeff was bankrolling the outfit. The search took longer than he expected – they'd done a fair job in scrubbing their existence from the web. Unfortunately, they had a history-making astronaut, a well-known astronomer/author, and the sole survivor of a horrific hydrofoil crash in the family, which made it kinda impossible to do a complete wipe. Asked his buds in the military, too. With their names, he'd probably dug up more info than anybody else could. He didn't know who else they had in on their scheme, but this was a start. He wondered why they had such lax security.

He got to his feet, retrieving the tablet. Ignoring the email, he idly flipped through the material he'd collected. He could out International Rescue. He had the means to do it. He was ready to do it. The question was: why hadn't he?

Yeah, he owed them his life and his reputation. Yet there were bigger issues here. If you believed Lambert, they'd been doing all this seemingly heroic work in order to steal the plans to a top secret fighter. Lambert's crew were investigating all the known rescues for similar security breaches. Kerr crucified them daily in the court of public opinion. The military was searching the world for International Rescue.

He could help them. End the search and catch the thieves by sending this one-line email.

He shook his head sharply. His lips twitched with frustration as he paced his living room, abstractedly tapping a corner of the tablet on his palm. What other intel had they lifted? In his mind, he went over the flight when Scott Tracy sat in as co-pilot. How much had they learned about the _Fireflash_ on that last run? Was putting a man – Gordon, he recalled – in the starboard wing _really_ necessary? He recalled thinking how risky the maneuver was, especially in flight. Had Gordon been in the wing before the flight even began? Did a saboteur really sever the EPU, or was that a ruse of some sort?

If gathering information about the _Fireflash_ was their goal, why rescue the pilots of the second doomed flight? It was said they'd lost the majority of that plane to an explosion but the engines were still on the sea floor, accessible to their submersible. What about the first "sabotaged" flight, the one where over 600 people died? Why hadn't International Rescue stepped in then? Hansen didn't want to ascribe some dark ulterior motive to them, but there were easier, less destructive and conspicuous ways to gather intel on _Fireflash_. Sure, this wasn't the case with the AL4. That mutha was saved in hard copy only. There were no virtual back doors to sneak in. They had to come up with some crap that got them near the vault. Still, why be so damned public about it? Why spend so much money on this whole charade and why, after months of expecting complete secrecy, would you let the press take your picture?

He snorted, a derisive sound. If there was anything in the universe he was sure of, it was this: that operative-turned-thief – who wasn't part of the Tracy family as far as he knew – _allowed_ that damn photo to be taken.

Now an astronaut floated in space, a dead man for sure because only International Rescue could get to him in time and they were in hiding.

"It just doesn't make any sense."

He stopped in his tracks, a bit surprised that he'd given voice to what nagged at him. No, it didn't make sense. None of it did.

It still left him with a dilemma: send the email or not?

He moistened his lips as he maximized the email on his screen. His jaw hardened. His finger hovered over the "Send" button.

An icon flashed and caught his eye, signaling a breaking news item on one of his search aggregators. Irritated, he stabbed at it. A fresh article appeared.

His breath caught. His eyes widened. He staggered to the sofa, dropping to it as if poleaxed.

_International Rescue cleared! AL4 thieves caught! Lost astronaut saved!_

He took a moment to skim through the entire report, getting all the details down. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned back to the email and emphatically deleted it.

"Damn. That was a close one."


End file.
